Unexpected Light
by Polly Lynn
Summary: He might not come. He was angry, too. Hurt. And she walked away. More than anything, he hates that. She knows he hates that, but she couldn't think what else to do. Because she was one silent plea from giving in. A one-shot in the TARDIS-verse, set during "Dial M for Mayor."


Title: Unexpected Light

Rating: T (mostly for language)

WC: ~3100

Spoilers: Set during "Dial M for Mayor" (4x12) and makes reference to "The Final Nail" (3x15), but people less spoilerphobic than I would probably not be fussed by the pretty oblique references.

A/N: Another one-shot in the TARDIS-verse. It's after TARDIS and Calculation, but before Circle 'Round the Sun. Things will probably be confusing if you haven't read at least TARDIS.

* * *

It's not a good idea. She's angry. Frustrated. This case is eating her from the inside out, mostly because of him.

Because she trusts his instincts, but she knows his heart. Huge and open and fiercely loyal. And she knows how bad it can be when his heart is wrong. She _knows_. Tonight, she feels like Exhibit A.

But it's nagging at her. Something he said. It tugs her from between the sheets. _(Not that she would have slept anyway.) _Turns her extraordinarily comfortable couch to hard lumps digging into her spine. Sets her pacing, phone dangerously in hand.

He might not come. He was angry, too. Hurt. And she walked away. More than anything, he hates that. She knows he hates that, but she couldn't think what else to do. Because she was one silent plea from giving in.

He might not come. So why not send it? Find out the worst. How fragile this thing is. How fragile they are. How they've already been damaged beyond repair.

_Wouldn't _that _be a relief?_

The thought flicks across her mind so quickly it almost doesn't register. But she chases it down. And when she catches it, she is _incandescently _angry.

She is supposed to be _over _this by now. Beyond the instinct to torch things. To eliminate the risk before she can get hurt. She's supposed to be better, whatever Burke says about time and work and letting herself try and fail. She's supposed to be _better_.

She stabs at the phone to unlock the screen. Her thumb stops a fraction of a millimeter shy of send. What if _this_ is the sabotage? Summoning him. Making demands. Taking and taking and taking, because he will always give. _Always. _

She hits the back space, once, twice, and stops again.

She sees him by her side, a curtain of breath unfurling, not quite hiding his smile. Sees him across a table from her. Talking with his hands. Letting his coffee go cold. Making her laugh. Telling her with every look, every touch that she's enough for him, even if she isn't more.

It's not just about her, whatever this is they're doing. Whatever they've _been_ doing for months now. It's about them. About what they can be. What they _will _be.

She restores the deleted characters. Hesitates a second more with her thumb over the question mark. Shifts left and emphatically drops in a period, then hits send.

He might not come, but he deserves to know she wanted him to. Deserves the chance to turn her down.

_He might not come._

* * *

He almost misses it.

He's bone weary, but every time he closes his eyes, it's like an electrical storm behind his eyelids. So he's slumped behind his desk, staring at the flat panel with the sound off. And he almost misses it.

The BBC has it now. The same clip, over and over, and he decides that his mother was right: It's time to phone a friend.

He flips his cell over and does a double-take. _Time out. _Time stamped seventeen minutes earlier. His thumb comes down so hard on the screen that the phone flips out of his hand. He fumbles for it. Bats it hard against the corner of the desk and sends it skittering underneath.

He dives and comes up with it just as his head connects with the solid wood. He sees stars of a different kind. The moment is enough to pull him up short.

He almost missed it. Maybe it's a sign from the universe. What is he doing anyway? What are _they_ doing? Play acting in the middle of the night. Inching forward and winding up nowhere in the light of day.

"_What do you want me to do, Rick?" _

He drops his head back. Winces as he hits the tender spot again. What does he want?

He wants to be angry with her. He _is _angry with her. Because he doesn't know if this is about her not trusting him or not _trusting _him. The partner or the man.

He wants to challenge her. Call her out on her trust issues, not just with him, with _everyone_. Wants her to call him out when he's spinning the story, not working the case. To catch him when he falls if this is Damien Westlake all over again. He wants her to believe him when he tells her it's not. _It's not. _

He has to believe that things would be different if they could just do this. Be together. Be partners. He has to believe that he'd push and she'd push back and they'd still be standing at the end of the day. He has to believe that she knows he loves her whether the sun is up or down and that's not the problem here.

But it's 1:58 AM and he's sitting on the floor under his desk with his secrets and he can't help wondering if this is what she's worried about. That it's not her issues or his issues but an issue with a life of its own. If they would have to choose one or the other. (He knows what he would choose, which doesn't mean that it would be easy. Just that he knows.)

He bumps the home button on his phone to bring up the time. Twenty-six minutes now. Maybe she's given up. Maybe she thinks _he _has. Maybe she's counting on it.

He sits up suddenly. Remembers the bump just in time and smashes his fingers between his skull and the desk. Ignores the fresh burst of pain.

She _is_ counting on it. The truth of that drops into his mind with sudden clarity. A part of her is, anyway. The part of her that wields his first name like a blade and walks away. The part of her that knows the ins and outs of nowhere. Knows how to lose herself there.

His mouth twists in a cross between a smile and a grimace. He has no intention of making things easy for that part of her.

_Time Out. _He hits send with a flourish.

* * *

She jumps—actually jumps—when the dark screen flares and the phone buzzes against her palm. Absolutely absurd. She's been staring at it for twenty-eight minutes.

She's still staring. _What now?_ She can hear the internal voice's evil grin. Because _really_, what _now?_

She has to name the place. Those are the rules. And she has _no idea_.

_Because you thought he wouldn't come. _She didn't. She really didn't.

She drops heavily on to the end of the chaise. Coffee feels wrong. It's about debts and forward momentum, and this—tonight—is about what? Maintenance? Damage control? Hanging on. Letting him see how tightly she is hanging on.

She thinks about the moment her bare feet hit the floor. When she gave up on the idea of sleep.

_It's therapy. _He'd said it with such . . . longing. And she wonders. She worries. And she wants to know this about him. That's not so different from how they've spent these times before.

In fact, it's not different at all.

It's this case. She hates it. _Hates _it. The way it twists its through her. Through them. Like an omen. Like everything she's afraid of will come to pass. Like a threat.

It's not different, but coffee is still wrong somehow. She doesn't want to walk, either. She's tired and she hates the symbolism of every corner, every intersection. She hates that she can't fix them in a time and place of her choosing.

She jumps again. The phone blooms into light. Buzzes and jars her fingers free of the tight knot they've formed around it.

_Tribeca park. _

She whips a glance over her shoulder, half expecting to see him tucked away in a corner, smirking at her.

This isn't how it works. _Tribeca park_. Dead center between his place and hers. The heavy-handed symbolism isn't like him. Maybe that's a sign, too. She doesn't care.

_Tribeca park. 10 min. _

This isn't how it works, but she doesn't have a better idea.

* * *

The park is black. Pitch black and freezing. He wonders if it's a sign, then decides that the universe can go fuck itself for the night. He's breaking the rules.

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and drops on to a bench. Stifles a shriek as the cold slats meet the backs of his thighs. It's like he's wearing nothing at all. _Exposure: A metaphor for the ages._

He hears footsteps and heart races. In spite of everything, his heart still races.

He turns expectantly toward the sound, but it's not her. It's a tired, disgruntled-looking kid, not much older than Alexis, still pulling on his city jumpsuit and tightening the tool belt around his waist.

Castle pulls in his feet at the last second, saving him from a hard fall. The kid's head swivels toward him. He gives Castle a look of pissed-off surprise. Castle responds with a cheery little wave. He can't help it. Something about the encounter lifts his mood, just for a second.

More footsteps. Absolutely hers this time. She stops 10 steps away.

His stomach drops and drags him down with it. Her caution is like a pin, sudden and sharp, making short work of the hope he hadn't even realized he'd be harboring. That she'd . . . what? Run into his arms? Realize that they'd passed every test that matters at least two near-death experiences ago? Admit that he was right about this? About everything? About them?

"Castle?" Her voice is clear. Firm. Tough. But he knows her. Hears the uncertainty.

He almost laughs. What is he from where she stands? An an inky black outline in a pitch black park. _There's caution and there's _caution. Not everything is a metaphor. Even for them.

"Here," he says, not bothering to keep the amusement out of his voice.

She steps closer and stops again, this time right in front of him. The long benches are broken into smaller units by dramatic arcs of wrought iron. He's planted himself exactly in the middle and she doesn't know if he's willing to share. She doesn't know if it's a good idea.

He tips his face up as though he's studying hers, but how could he be? She can hardly see a thing, even this close.

He gives a low chuckle. She can just make out the bulk of him sliding left, just a little closer to the divider. Hears him pat the wood on his other side. "It's just a bench, Beckett. Sit."

She's annoyed at his apparent good cheer. Relieved by it. He didn't come to punish her. To make her hear in person that he's done. He _probably_ didn't come for that.

"Thanks for coming," she says finally. He seems to think it's her turn to talk.

He nods and realizes she probably can't see it, given that she's still just standing there. He stifles a sigh and reluctantly adds, "Sure."

_So much for good cheer. Great job, Kate. _

She sighs herself. Sinks down to the bench and immediately pops back to her feet. "God _damn_ that's _cold_!"

He laughs. "Here."

Before he can think about it, he reaches for her hand and slides over even more, right up against the divider. "Here. I warmed . . .Warmed! . . ." his voice climbs an octave as his thighs land in a new cold spot. He clears his throat, pitches it lower as he pulls her down next to him, ". . . warmed it up for you."

He can't see her smile, but he can feel it. Tight lipped and barely there, but it's still one of his favorites. (_They're all his favorites. He is truly pathetic._) It makes him want to open his coat and pull her inside. To warm her skin against his own. It's burning all of a sudden and her shivering seems like such a waste. Instead, he places her hand carefully in her lap and removes his own to minimum safe distance. As if there _is _a minimum safe distance.

She settles next to him and they fall back into silence. Comfortable this time. At least she thinks so.

He thinks so too, and God knows he could do nothing but watch her all night. Wait for his eyes to slowly adjust and make the most of the light. Unveil her bit by bit.

But she wants to know something. He can tell by the set of her shoulders, wide and stubborn against the bench. The tilt of her head and the angle of her chin, just barely visible. And most of all in the way her hand sneaks out and worries at his sleeve. Skips over the spot where she's already made a casualty of one button. Moves on to the next.

He waits another moment. He doesn't know where this is going and he likes where he is, all things considered. But she wants to know something.

"So," he says quietly. "Topic?"

She drops her head against his shoulder for just a second. Turns to bury her nose against the fabric and send a soft laugh rippling down the sleeve. He might just be the most merciful man she's ever known.

He doesn't know what he's done to deserve _that_, which is a shame. If he did, he seriously consider doing it every hour on the hour for the rest of his life.

She pulls back. Tangles her fingers in between the buttons on his sleeve and speaks, "Loneliness."

His breath catches. What he meant to be a light-hearted echo turns plaintive. A question. "Loneliness?"

Her face is tipped down, but she nods. He can't see her, but she's close enough that he feels it. Feels her shoulders shift forward in a protective hunch. She's afraid. And curious.

"I'm . . ." He trails off. Turns his palm over and offers it to her.

It's not an answer. She's big on answers. Night _and_ day. But her fingers go still against his sleeve. She closes them around a button, lets it go. Thinks a moment and snakes them through the gaps between his before she can think again.

"Loneliness," he repeats. He squeezes her fingers and hopes she can't feel his shaking. "I need a little help here, Kate."

She still hasn't looked up. "Those aren't the rules, Castle."

"No," he admits. "Not the rules, but . . ."

"What's it like?"

"What's it like to be lonely?" He knows he sounds like some kind of idiot parrot, but he's at a loss.

"Yes."

She sounds testy. For some reason that sets his heart racing. He's nervous. Excited. He'd sort of assumed this was about her. Now he has no clue _what _it's about. He loves to be surprised. Loves when she surprises him.

"Well," he draws out the word to buy time. "It depends."

"On what?" She's bordering on derision now. It's the tone of voice she uses before she forbids him things.

"On whether you choose it or not," he says quickly, then realizes that doesn't make much sense. He adds, "Choose to be alone."

"Being alone isn't being lonely." Her head snaps up. "Is that what you think?"

He can only just see her eyes—an indistinct shimmer at his side—but he knows the look she's giving him. The demands she's making. He fumbles for a response, but she rescues him. Speaks again.

"Castle, are you . . . lonely now?"

She sounds appalled. He is _seriously_ not following her.

"Well not . . . _right _now." He meant it as a joke, a bit of a leer to break the tension. But it comes out low and intimate and suddenly he's turning toward her and bringing her fingertips to his lips.

She makes an impatient noise. Tugs their hands down. Brings them to rest in a tidy knot where their knees brush together.

"Lately," she says firmly. "Have you been lonely lately?"

"No." It slips out immediately and surprises him. But it's true. He _realizes_ it's true, so he says it again, more certain now, "No. I haven't been lonely . . . in a while."

"Ok. Why?"

"Why am I . . . not lonely?" His voice sounds strange in his own ears.

She's looking down, apparently fascinated by her hand in his, but she nods eagerly.

"I have the things I need," he goes on slowly. He's never really thought about it before. "And a lot of the things I want."

"And that's all?" She's not whispering, but he can barely hear her. She angles her chin up. Looks at him from beneath her lashes. "That's enough?"

"No." He shakes his head and her chin drops. He's not trying to hurt her, but he wants her to understand.

"But you said . . ." Her voice isn't shaking. _It isn't_. "You said you're not lonely . . . lately."

_Oh the hell with it. _He pulls his hand free and slides his arms around her.

"I'm not," he whispers into her hair. "I'm not. I'm not."

She lets out a breath. It's shaky and seems to go on forever. Ends in a frustrated sigh and another demand, "Then _what, _Castle?"

He doesn't laugh. Too dangerous at close range. But he wants to. Because it's fantastic. She's fantastic. She's on the verge of falling apart and she still—_still_—sounds so damned pissed off at him. And fond. Whatever else she is—whatever _they _are—she's _fond _of him.

"I'm not lonely." He dips his head and kisses her cheek. "Because I have hope, too."

"Hope?"

"Hope. Hope." He kisses her lips for emphasis. Coaxes her eyes up to meet his. "I'll keep what I need. And I'll have what I want. And for now . . . lately . . . I have hope. And I'm not lonely."

She kisses him this time. Her hands start out in tight fists at the front of his jacket and work their way up and up and she can't believe she was shivering just a minute ago. Can't believe either of them has ever been cold in their entire lives.

There's a sudden sound. Like air rushing in to a single point and back out again. And even with her eyes closed it's noon-time bright.

He breaks the kiss, but holds on to her. She holds on, too.

"Whoa," his breath skims her cheek and he's turning her away and pulling her closer all at the same time. He settles his chin into the crook of her neck. Nudges her cheek with his nose. "Kate. Look. It's beautiful."

And it is. The trees are black and leafless. Skeletal arms branching and reaching up and out, giving way to delicate fingers. Every one studded with a thousand gorgeous lights, twinkling and spiraling into the black.

"It's beautiful," she leans back and whispers it against the corner of his mouth. "Like a sign from the universe."


End file.
